


Bram Stoker's Ozymandias

by meganphntmgrl



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Catboys & Catgirls, Gen, Multi, Period-Typical Prejudices, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganphntmgrl/pseuds/meganphntmgrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel Dreiberg, a young solicitor for Mr. Mason's legal firm in New York, voyages to Transylvania to oversee the purchase of Carnac Abbey by its mysterious owner, the Count Adrian Veidt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daniel Dreiberg's Journal

**Author's Note:**

> I began this fic at a pretty feverish pace back in 2010, and then ended up letting it fade out of existence. Moving it to the archive is my way of trying to bring it back into view, and also allowing me to continue it on an active platform rather than LiveJournal.
> 
> Old!Vampire!Veidt owes a major debt in depiction to the anonymously written "Dollverse" on the Watchmen kinkmeme (an AU in which rather than looking like a goddamned golden god and fighting crime as Ozymandias, he's rather pitifully ugly and lanky and wears a V-type costume as "The Painted Doll"), though things obviously spiralled off differently.

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
May 05  
1:30 pm

I have arrived safely at Castle Veidt- or, as the locals in the small village at the foot of the mountain call it, Veidt-bastya. What an odd language they speak here. I was able to use German with many of them, at least, though their accents made the enterprise difficult. 

I have seen neither hide nor hair of the Count himself yet. He keeps three stoical servants in purple livery, whose faces suggest Oriental heritage, and while two have remained as silent as the castle itself, the third has told me that the Count is in poor health and prefers to reserve his strength by sleeping most of the day. I don’t know if I see any point to sleeping all day and then being awake at night, but perhaps this is a European custom. Poor fellow. Here’s to hoping the good old USA will be better to him.

At least I will know who to look for. On the way to my room, the Count’s valet showed me a large portrait of his master as a young man. The Count was quite the Adonis in his heyday, if that canvas tells the truth, even in rather stuffy Egyptian fancy dress. I mentioned this to the servant, commenting that the Countess was probably the luckiest bride in town. The valet replied:

“The master has never been married. Nor, do I think, he ever will be.”

Well, look out, New York, because thanks to Mason and Dreiberg, Ltd., Count Veidt is coming for your daughters!

 

11:17 pm

I have just returned from dinner with the Count. I said “poor fellow” before, but now I’m really sorry for the man. The valets led me to a dark, dimly appointed dining room, on the table of which there was a fantastic spread, like dinner at the Plaza Hotel. I wanted to wait for the count to arrive, but was told that he wanted me to begin, with his compliments.

I don’t know if the three manservants do the cooking around here or if there’s a flock of kitchen maids hiding somewhere in the recesses of the castle, but whoever’s behind this food really knows their way around a roast pheasant. I set Laurie’s photograph up to look at me as I ate and, well, it was better than nothing. Here’s to half a century of sumptuous meals with the real thing once I’m back in New York and we can make things official.

The Count didn’t show up until I was taking another slice of pheasant. I didn’t have a chance to see him come in; the first thing that alerted me to his presence was a low, dry voice saying “Herr Dreiberg…”

I looked up to see him and almost choked on my food. Time hasn’t been the Count’s friend, to tell you the truth. He’s still handsome enough, I suppose- he was instantly recognizable from the portrait. But his clean-shaven cheeks are sunken and hollow; the large clear eyes of the portrait now pathetically huge and shadowed like a starving beggar’s, the once full lips thin and pale, the whole cast of his skin rather grayish. His hair is neither blond, as it once was, or gray or even white, but a dull faded yellow, though it’s cut so carefully that it only inspired further pity. I think he’s trying to hang onto his glory days, between that and the elegant cut of his purple waistcoat. He’s a shambling mockery of a gentleman. I only hope he can survive the voyage.

“Count Veidt,” I said, standing up to shake his hand.  
“How good of you to come at last,” said the Count. He seized my hand in a kind of cold vise with long, thin, spidery fingers. “It is not often that we receive visitors here…”  
“It’s an impressive castle, certainly,” I replied. “You don’t have tourists, even?”

The Count sat down at the chair opposite mine and gestured for me to sit as well.

“The villagers are not sociable toward me, thanks to my condition,” he sighed, blinking those great hollow eyes in a plaintive, slow way. “They fear that I may bring a curse upon them, so to speak.”  
“That’s just backward foolishness,” I told him. “I promise you, New York will be better.”

I reflected for a moment, then added, “Perhaps that explains the way they reacted when they learned I was coming here.”

The Count leaned forward with some interest.

“How did they react, Herr Dreiberg?”

I swallowed my food and waved a hand. “Oh, just the usual bunk. One woman even tried to give me a crucifix- ‘the dead travel fast’, she said- but I don’t think my family raised a proud Jewish son just so I could start saying the rosary on vacation.”  
“They are a superstitious people,” said the Count. “They are entrenched in their old ways and have no desire to budge.”

By about now I’d noticed that the Count had a different accent than the villagers. Lighter, perhaps German? I will have to remember to ask him his history later.

The Count’s valet poured him a goblet of a very heavy dark wine.

“I don’t suppose I could have a swig of that?” I asked.  
“I am sorry, Herr Dreiberg, but it is not simply wine. It is mixed with my medicine, and I fear you would find it rather salty and bitter.”

He took a long sip from the goblet and then set it before him. I saw then that he had no place setting either.

“Aren’t you going to eat, sir?”  
“I do not consume… flesh,” said the Count. “My constitution does not allow much variety in my diet. But do not feel embarrassed, please- eat your fill, my friend. You need not starve on my account.”

And so I ate, and gladly. The Count told me about his land and its history in great detail. It seems that even Alexander the Great himself made it here in his conquests, though the proud people of the land repelled his forces, a situation that the Count seemed to find regrettable.

“Imagine, if you can, Herr Dreiberg, a world of many nations united in harmony, where war itself is obsolete!”  
“I think that the USA would find that a pretty bleak state of affairs, actually,” I said candidly. 

The Count paused and worked his thin, pale lips together for a moment.

“Yes… I have studied the habits of your nation. If I may be allowed a moment of grandiosity- Veidt is not America. Its ways are not my ways, but I suppose I must carry on gratefully as a new arrival on its shores.”  
“You ought to make quite a splash, showing up with a title and the deeds to old Carnac Abbey,” I replied. “By the way, what an odd name that is, isn’t it? According to Mr. Mason it’s due to the building having originally been constructed in Carnac, Brittany in France a few centuries ago. Some rich eccentric had it moved to the riverfront district in New York, timber by timber, around twelve years ago, but nobody’s seen fit to buy it.”  
“I consider myself a very lucky man, then” said the Count.  
“I have brought the deed here, actually, if you’d like to sign it now,” I offered.

The Count nodded and rose from his chair while I unpacked the deed, pen and ink and set them beside my plate for him to sign.

The Count bent and took the pen in his long, spider-like fingers, but as he was about to dip the nib he stopped so short and his eyes went so wide that for a moment I thought he was suffering an apoplexy right there.

“Your young lady,” he gasped.

I’d almost forgotten I still had Laurie’s picture out, and I smiled and passed it to him. Poor old man, probably hasn’t even seen a woman’s smile since he caught this sickness of his.

“That’s my Laurel. Laurie. We’re engaged to be married when I return.”

The Count studied her photograph hungrily and then set it down.

“The deed, then.”

He signed it in exquisite calligraphy (his given name, it seems, is really only Adrian, though my liason in Buda-Pesth gave it as Adryjador- a localization, perhaps?) and then announced that he was feeling a particularly bad spell on the horizon and needed to retire to his room. He bade me good night and then disappeared, very swiftly.

I can’t help but feel guilty for taking such an ill man’s money, but if he has the grit to endure the passage to New York, God knows he can find a better class of doctor there, away from strange superstitions and ancient folk magic.


	2. Daniel's Letter to Miss Laurel Juspeczyk; Daniel Dreiberg's Journal (Con't)

Daniel Dreiberg’s Letter to Miss Laurel Juspeczyk  
May 06

Dear Laurie,

I imagine you’ll be getting this letter around the time you anticipated me returning to you with a European nobleman in tow, and that you will be very disappointed. I wish I were there with you already, or that you perhaps were here with me instead. 

I’m writing to tell you that my business here with Count Veidt has been unexpectedly extended. Nobody informed me ahead of time that the Count has one foot in the grave already, but he’s in bad, bad shape and needs to stay here a while longer before he can safely make the trip to New York, and well… you know me. I can’t let the old fellow make it alone in this state.

I’m guessing the Count has a particularly bad case of anemia as one of his symptoms, though he hasn’t fully explained anything so far, other than his desperation to live in spite of it. His valet explained to me that he is on a constant, rotating schedule of attempted cures both scientific and folkloric, just trying to find what will do any good at all. Suffice it to say that while I was looking around the castle this morning, I found him stretched out in a casket in a darkened room on one of the lower levels. The man looks like death warmed over already, so you can imagine my shock at seeing him in a box!

But he opened his eyes after I came in, even sat up a bit despite being dressed in this odd, flowing purple robelike thing, and said, “Is something wrong, Herr Dreiberg?”

Well, gee, what did he think was wrong? I’ll admit, I was still pretty startled by the whole thing, and I told him.

“Ah,” said the Count. “I might have prepared you for this. This is no ordinary sarcophagus; the lining is filled with mineral-enriched soil under the silk, and I lie within it to inhale the mineral vapors in hope that it will do me some good.”

At that point, I felt like a real no-account for being surprised at all, and I began to insist that he allow himself some more time to recover. So please, Laurie, don’t blame Count Veidt for the delay, it’s just me playing Good Samaritan. I can’t in good conscience allow him to travel alone in his condition.

I just hope the old fellow can pull it together soon so I can make it back to you!

With love,  
Daniel

 

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
May 07, 8:32 am

To steal a quotation from Carroll, “curiouser and curiouser!”

Between my early encounter with Count Veidt yesterday, writing my letter to Laurie, and exploring the castle at large, I realized last night that I’m already getting a bit shakier on my own habits. Count Veidt slept most of the day, as expected, and didn’t even show up for dinner, but that was a bit of a relief on my part, because I realized around then that I hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.

After another sumptuous meal courtesy of the Count, I went back to my room, lit around a dozen large candles, and went about trying to find a mirror. I had to settle for my little travel mirror instead. Another reason to look forward to the Count’s recovery!

“Herr Dreiberg?”

The Count seemed to have essentially materialized outside my bedroom door.

“Herr Dreiberg, may I enter and speak with you?”  
“Yes, of course, if you don’t mind watching me shave.”

The Count entered slowly, still in that enveloping robe he had been wearing during his earlier therapy in the casket. I greeted him with an encouraging smile that he did not return.

“Herr Dreiberg-”

He stopped, very suddenly, almost in the same manner he had at Laurie’s photograph the night before, and then gestured at the shaving mirror despairingly.

“Please, Herr Dreiberg- put that away-”  
“Hmmm?”  
“Your mirror- if only until I leave again-”

I gave him a doubtful look and tucked it back inside my bag, thinking I might wait until he’d left to finish and feeling a bit ridiculous to still be half-covered in shaving soap. The Count lowered himself into the chair to my right and covered his eyes with one of those bizarre, spidery hands of his.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in concern.  
“It’s… it’s only vanity,” said the Count, his tone rather ashamed, “but… I hope you will forgive me a vain eccentricity. Since I began my decline, I cannot bear to look at myself in this… weak, compromised state.”

His whole body sank so much that I thought he was going to sob, but he didn’t. I wouldn’t’ve blamed him if her had. God knows I’ve never matched the level of perfection he seems to have enjoyed in youth and health; I imagine I’d be rather upset too if I’d had it and then lost it so dramatically.

“It’s no trouble at all, sir,” I said. “I can wait until you’ve left to finish.”  
“That will not be necessary,” replied the Count, lowering his hand and opening his eyes again. “You are already such a great help to me, I can complete this task for you.”

I was of course, deeply surprised. He’s European royalty and I’m a clerk from New York- who should be serving whom here?

“Sir, it’s fine-”  
“I insist,” said the Count.

Well, that’s part of being the lesser man in these situations; you learn to accept when you’re commanded. I moved a chair close to and opposite him and brought my towel, my foam brush, my bowl and my razor to where he sat, then sat myself down before him. 

The Count’s cold hands drifted toward my face and removed my spectacles. He set them on the table, reapplied foam to areas I had already shaved, and began the whole project anew, with one hand entwining into my hair to hold my head steady while the other scraped at my face with the razor.

“So, Herr Dreiberg, you said you are engaged to the young lady in your photograph.”  
“Laurie’s a great girl,” I sighed. “Smart as a whip and beautiful to boot.”

His hand in my hair now seemed to be less bracing and more… caressing, almost. I didn’t mind it.

“Does she come from a good family?” he asked.  
“Her mother’s rather well-known,” I said carefully.

The Count actually laughed at that, not unkindly.

“Madame Jupiter- that was her nom de theatre- was… well. The usual description is ‘no better than she ought to be’, and now she’s a divorcee in her later years. She wanted Laurie to be an actress as well, and Laurie was Puck as a child and Juliet as a young lady. She played Ophelia two years ago, and after that she left the stage for good,” I explained. “That was still when she and Dr. Osterman were considering betrothal…”  
“So you are not the first man to carry a torch for her, I see.”  
“A girl like Laurie only comes around so often,” I said. “It’s not common for someone like her to choose someone like me…”

The Count’s thin mouth twitched into a smile.

“And her father?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“Her mother- well, I just explained it-”

The Count’s thin hand suddenly trembled so badly that the cheek he was finishing suddenly erupted with a bolt of stinging pain. I could feel something dripping from it. The Count’s eyes widened ad he recoiled from me.

“You’re bleeding-” he hissed.  
“I figured- it’s not a huge problem-”  
“My apologies,” said the Count. “Allow me to… remove it…”

To my great surprise- and somewhat to my shame!- the Count leaned forward to dab at my cut cheek. He seemed then to nearly swoon- he fell back in his chair with the bloody rag held to his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head-

“Sir!”  
“Herr Dreiberg… forgive me.”

He lowered the rag and laughed, and the sound was filled with utter misery.

“Herr Dreiberg, please finish yourself, and don’t allow me to see my ruined self in your little mirror, please…”  
“Do you need to lie down?” I asked. “When I’m done I could see you to your room.”  
“I think that may be for the best, yes,” said the Count. “I’m terribly sorry, Herr Dreiberg…”

He lay there as I finished and did as he asked regarding the mirror. I don’t know if I have ever seen someone so deeply unhappy as he seemed to be then,. It must feel like such a massive betrayal on the part of one’s own body to have to live as he does, weak and trembling and slowly being drained of vitality…

I finished and wiped my face. The blood had already begun to coagulate; perhaps I’ll be able to return to Laurie with a dashing scar. The Count leaned on my arm and guided me to his bedchamber, which I now know to be appointed as richly as the private quarters of any of the ancient pharaohs the Count seems to so greatly admire.

I stood at his bedside as he climbed into it, still in that rippling purple robe, and bid him good night. As I was about to leave, though, I heard his weak voice once again.

“Herr Dreiberg?”

I turned around.

“Yes, sir?”  
“Will you come here please, for just a moment, so that I may make sure I haven’t damaged you too badly?”

I did as he asked, sitting on his bed and leaning quite close, when to my surprise, the Count concluded his inspection of my wound by pressing his lips to it, as a mother would to a child’s skinned knee. His lips are cold as well, and while I expected him to give off an odor of illness so close, he instead seemed possessed of no scent at all, nothing but the clamminess of his skin to make his proximity plain.

I am ashamed to admit that I stumbled back from this in shock. 

“Sir-”  
“It is all right, Herr Dreiberg. Go take your rest.”

I left him alone in that silent Egyptian tomb of a room and slept fitfully last night, dreaming of a large catlike creature that climbed on my bed and licked my face. I’m still tired this morning, but I intend to spend the day taking advantage of the Count’s excellent library, and I am certain he won’t mind if I nod off in there by accident.


	3. Laurel Juspeczyk's Diary

Laurel Juspeczyk’s Diary  
May 9

Mamma awoke me this morning in a state of great concern, saying that there was an emergency and I needed to dress at once. My thoughts immediately raced with worries that Daniel was somehow hurt on his voyage to Transylvania, or worse, killed, but it was thankfully nothing so severe. 

As it turns out, one of Mamma’s old stage companions, Byron Lewis, was committed to Jon’s asylum last night, and she wanted to hurry over and see if he was all right. I remembered Mr. Lewis from a party she held when I was thirteen and had just been cast as Goneril. She was so thrilled that I had my first adult role and wanted to bring back all of her old friends from her time in the theatre so that they could see me following in her footsteps. Mr. Lewis had already descended into habitual drunkenness at the time and arrived so tipsy that he spilled the new drink Mamma poured him. He was thinner than I’d seen him in Mamma’s old photographs and had a dazed look about him the entire time. He made such a sad impression upon me that I thought he might have made a better Lear than the real star of my production, what with the way he exuded such madness and despair.

I dressed myself in a solemn gray gown that seemed suitable for the occasion, while Mamma insisted on her perennially favored yellow silks. On the cab ride to the asylum she brought up her favorite subject: my previous entanglement with Jon.

“He would have made a fine husband, Laurel.”  
“I know, Mother.”  
“He has a good salary and is so kind to his poor lunatics.”  
“I know, Mother.”  
“Better than a clerk, however nice a boy your Danny may be.”  
“I know, Mother.”

Mamma produced a tiny bottle of cherry cordial from her reticule and took a sip before sliding it back inside.

“You only call me ‘Mother’ when you’re upset.”  
“I’m not upset. I only wish that we could discuss something else for once. You know what happened… and you’ve seen how devoted he is to his career. I would not want to live my life constantly having to share him with his work-”  
“You’re sharing Danny with some bigwig near Bucharest-”  
“Budapest-”  
“They’re both forever away, Laurel. When is he due back, anyway?”  
“He and Count… Weiss, I think it was- they are due to arrive together in three weeks to that the Count may move into Carnac Abbey.”

Mamma reached for her cordial again, but that was when we arrived at the asylum and had to get out.

I do not know how Jon can stand it there. Even in the foyer one can hear the screams of the poor souls inside, very dimly. I suppose it is just Jon’s utter lack of overwhelming emotion that allows it. He was standing there, waiting for us, with his stiff posture and perfectly waving dark hair, and greeted us very politely.

“Madame Jupiter,” he said, bowing. “Laur- Miss Juspeczyk.”

I nodded as neutrally as I could, while Mamma immediately pressed on with the questions.

“Where’s Byron? Is he all right? Are you certain he wasn’t just drunk-”  
“Come with me. I’ll take you to him.”

Jon turned and we followed him through corridors full of the most dreadful, heartrending noise, until we stopped at a cell door identical to all the others. Two orderlies opened the view window, very like a ship’s porthole, so that we could see inside.

Mr. Lewis looked nearly the same as before, save with more gray hair and with eyes that burned with unspeakable, crazed thoughts. He was crawling on the floor, muttering to himself, until Mamma flung herself at the porthole and cried out, “Byron! Oh, Byron!”

Mr. Lewis clambered to his feet.

“Sally? Oh, thank God, Sally, you’ll tell them, won’t you? Tell them that I don’t belong here!”

He began to weep very pitifully, and Mamma herself looked quite tearful. I confess, I was also deeply moved by what I saw, and I had to blink away a few tears of my own. Mamma was upon Jon at once.

“Dr. Osterman, what on earth happened to him?”  
“Mr. Lewis has succumbed to delusional thinking and extraordinary fantasies,” Jon answered placidly. “His neighbors in the tenement had already complained of his odd behavior, and this week he began to take on the signs of true mania-”  
“I’m not mad, I promise!” Mr. Lewis interjected. His gaze went from Jon to Mamma, and then finally to me, and his sobbing began anew. “Laurel, you’ll tell him about the Master, won’t you?”

I was completely taken aback. Mamma and Jon immediately looked at me in surprise, leaving me to stammer:

“Wh- who is the Master, Mr. Lewis?”  
“Please don’t encourage his delusions, Miss Juspeczyk,” said Jon.

Mr. Lewis strained toward the porthole like a man possessed.

“He who is coming- he who will give us new life-”  
“He’s not a lunatic, Dr. Osterman, he’s just a Pentacostal!” Mamma said dryly.  
“He’s told me-” Mr. Lewis cried out. “He promised… he says that he will give me a body, a new body, a body beyond my wildest imaginings… not this fickle mortal shell of mine…”

He fell to his knees and began mumbling on the floor again. I was struck dumb by the entire affair, but Mamma began entreating upon Mr. Lewis’ behalf.

“Surely he must be under some kind of influence, Doctor-”

She stopped suddenly and made an alarmed noise; a large, fluffy gray moth came flying past her head and through the barred porthole into Mr. Lewis’ cell. Mr. Lewis’ mumbling ceased immediately, and his tears were quickly replaced by a rictus of demented glee.

“Oh… oh, Master, thank you, Master-”

The moth alighted on the wall, and Mr. Lewis sprang toward it like an animal, capturing it under his cupped hands.

“Thank you, Master, for sending me this gift-”  
“Mr. Lewis-” Jon began, and at that moment Mr. Lewis took the struggling moth between two fingers, tore its wings off, and devoured them.

Mamma swooned. I cried out in alarm, and the two orderlies gathered her up before she had even had time to actually hit the ground. When I looked back at Mr. Lewis in horror, he popped the poor wingless moth in his mouth like a piece of penny candy and chewed it with relish, smiling up at me.

“The blood is the life, Laurel…” he said, and Jon shut the porthole.

 

They carried Mamma to Jon’s office and laid her out on the chaise. I sat in the armchair, shaken and trembling . The orderlies busied themselves waving smelling salts under Mamma’s nose until she awoke and looked at Jon.

“What- what has happened to him?” she wailed.  
“We are not entirely certain,” said Jon. “It seems that he has undergone a sort of mental regression that has been further warped by the onset of his mania. You likely remember what his first role was, don’t you?”

Mamma thought for a moment.

“…Moth,” she said weakly. “Moth, in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ …”  
“Mr. Lewis is suffering from delusions that he must become Moth- that he is receiving psychic messages from a ‘master’ who will give him a moth’s flight. He believes that if he devours moths, he will therefore absorb their ‘lives’, so to speak.”  
“That’s… that’s disgusting,“ I said.  
“Indeed,” said Jon. “We have had to coin a new term for the specific nature of Mr. Lewis’ mania. He is a zoophagous, or animal-eating, maniac.”  
“We all eat animals, Dr. Osterman, it’s called meat,” said Mamma.  
“Mamma, I think a man who descended upon cattle and took bites out of it in that manner might be mad too,” I commented. “It’s the spirit of the thing.”

I shuddered and crossed my arms around myself.

By the time we returned home, the servants had prepared us a fine luncheon, but neither of us had much of an appetite. I retired to my room and wrote Daniel a letter summarizing the day’s events, and now that I have committed them to this diary I feel curiously drained, and consumed by an odd sense of dread. Poor Mr. Lewis!


	4. Daniel Dreiberg's Journal

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
May 11  
5:08 pm

I feel as though I’m beginning to live constantly somewhere between the waking world and sleep. The bed I’ve been provided with here is obscenely comfortable; my only concern is that I’m getting too used to being able to sleep in. It’s getting harder and harder to drag myself out of bed in the mornings!

I’ve dreamt of that same cat again every night now, though I’ve at least discovered why. There’s an old tapestry of a panther in the hallway leading to my room. I imagine I saw it, but never realized I saw it, or something like that.

The Count’s condition has improved somewhat; yesterday I noticed his skin was quite a bit less grey, and today he was actually up and about in the daylight. There was a rather unfortunate trade aspect to it, though. 

It seems that he has had to spend so much time indoors, in the darkness, that he is now all but blind in bright daylight. He has the oddest squint I’ve ever seen- his lower lids don’t slide up at all. Instead his upper lids just come down so low that his eyes become sharp little crescents of black, and even then his eyes water terribly. The worst part of all this is that his tears are actually tinged with blood thanks to this gruesome ailment of his, and from a distance you’d be forgiven for thinking he’d put his eyes out like Oedipus. It’s a nasty sight.

“In New York, we’ll have to make sure you get your hands on a pair of specs with smoked glass lenses!” I offered as we ventured onto the surrounding grounds together.

The Count stumbled and reached for my shoulder.

“My stick- I have forgotten my stick-” he panted.  
“Easy now. You can lean on me until I find you a suitably heavy branch to use as a cane.”

My God, the man weighed so little despite his height. I could feel his elbow bulging from the arm slung around my shoulders. In sunlight, his hair appears thinner, too. He’s not balding, or patchy, it’s just that the all-over composition of it looks rather sparse.

“Thank you, Herr Dreiberg…” the Count said softly. “I am so much weaker by day, it’s-”  
“I know, I know. It’s part of your sickness just like everything else is. Haven’t you ever thought of having a doctor installed in the place?”  
“I have consulted with doctors. There has been no success.”

I lead him over to a section of ancient stone wall, likely constructed centuries ago by the Count’s ancestors but now only a shard remaining, and let him lean against him as I picked up a smooth fallen branch and weighed it in my hand.

“Here, this might work.”

He reached out for it, serene despite the red liquid tracks dripping from his tear ducts, and closed his hand around it. He lifted it, turned it, and then nodded.

“This will suffice.”

I had assumed he would use it the way a truly, permanently blind man uses his cane, to tap the ground below him and before him to guide his way, but the Count leaned on it like a staff as we walked together. In the meantime he managed to avoid every small obstacle I tried to point out to him on the path with no difficulty, until my curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask how he managed that.

“Living in darkness, one learns to recognize one’s surroundings through the way sound reacts on the environment.”

I paused.

“You mean to say- you echolocate?” I asked.  
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. With no company but my servants through many long winters, once I no longer had my strength, I made occasional study of the beasts of the forest and learned this skill based on theirs. The bats, the hawks…”  
“The owls!” I interjected.

The Count smiled.

“Yes, Herr Dreiberg. And the owls.”

He continued walking ahead of me.

“Right now, for example, I’m using my voice.”  
“That is- that is amazing-”  
“Thank you, Daniel.”

It did not go unnoticed that he was now using my given name, but I was still preoccupied by this new skill of his.

“And can you really not see out here at all?”  
“I can see light, outlines, shadows… not much more than that though, I’m afraid. This symptom fluctuates from time to time, lessening with exposure… I merely can’t withstand enough exposure.”

We stayed outside and discussed the local wildlife for an hour or so before I managed to bark my knee on a jutting bit of rock and began to bleed, and the Count reacted with great vehemence that he needed to go back and lie down. We were fortunately not too far from the castle; he retreated inside moving far more swiftly than I had yet seen him move while one of the valets arrived to bandage my leg and offer to clean the blood from my trousers after I changed for dinner. I did ask about the blood from the Count’s eyes, to make sure this was normal for him, and sadly it seems it is.

My God. What an awful way to live.

It has begun to rain outside; I think we came in just in time.

8:32 pm

The Count did not come down for dinner, though I had the shock of my life while I was eating. The rain has escalated into a fierce thunder-and-lightning storm, and as I was sitting there reading, I chanced to glance at the window, and when the lightning flashed I could see a strange human face pressed against the glass with an accusatory stare and a shock of bright red hair.

I leapt up from my chair in alarm while one of the valets rushed toward the window and banged on it, shouting in Hungarian. I could just barely make out the form of the face’s owner turning and running away, and for a moment I felt as weak as the Count.

“Apologies, Herr Dreiberg,” said the valet.  
“Who was that?” I asked as I tried to restore my heartbeat to its normal speed. “And does he always time his appearances with lightning?”  
“A tramp from the village. Kovacs Valther. Sometimes he comes up the mountain and traps for food. Don’t mind him, he’s quite mad.”

As much as I have enjoyed the Count’s hospitality, I think homesickness is definitely beginning to settle in. I hope his condition improves quickly enough that we can leave this bizarre place as soon as possible.


	5. Daniel's Letters to Miss Laurel Juspeczyk; Daniel Dreiberg's Journal (Con't)

Daniel Dreiberg’s Letter to Laurel Juspeczyk  
May 18

Dear Laurie:

I hope you are well. I’m writing to tell you that the Count says he expects we can depart in perhaps just over a month. He looked an absolute fright when I arrived, but he’s already gained a fine complexion and can now see outdoors, which he couldn’t before, and his eyes have stopped their related blood-watering.

I’m still doing well myself, albeit rather tired now. I’ve been going through a long spell of odd dreams lately and not sleeping particularly well, but the Count’s hospitality has quite made up for that. He provides food, and drink, and engaging company, though I must admit that some of his references and allusions go right over my head.

I hope you’re staying out of trouble. Tell your mother I’m still thinking of you both.

Love,  
Daniel

 

Daniel Dreiberg’s Letter to Laurel Juspeczyk  
June 12

Dear Laurie:

How’s this for an unlucky role reversal: I’ve come down with a dreadful fever and now poor Adrian is tending to me! He is, of course, deeply gracious and understanding of my predicament considering his own bad health, though at least this had the good sense to not surface until his situation had vastly improved. His swoons have largely passed, he’s gained a bit of weight on that scarecrow frame of his, and his mouth seems far less pinched and thin. At any rate, our travels are now postponed until I’m better off now. Good heavens.

I’m feeling another sleeping spell coming on, so I’ll have to end this now and send it down the mountain with one of Adrian’s valets. 

Love,  
Daniel

 

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
June 20th 6:24 pm,

I’m still feeling a bit weak, but the fever’s passed. Adrian has been a godsend through this entire ordeal. He sits by my side, he entreats me to tell him about America in great detail, he bandages the scratches I have given myself all over my body in my delirium with patience and no judgment at all. I hope that we can remain friends in New York once he is no longer simply my client.

I have seen odd things in my fever-dreams this past week. I imagine I still see Kovacs pressed to my window, looking inside with his mad, staring eyes, or Adrian climbing down the exterior wall opposite mine outside the window like some kind of human lizard, or more visitations from the panther in the tapestry.

Adrian is looking better; it may be a trick of the light but his hair seems glossier, thicker and more properly blond, and his eyes are now bright and alert, if still a bit shadowy. All we need now is for both of us to get ourselves together so that we can depart for New York.

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
June 22/23, no time given

I am torn, utterly torn.

I have been in a stupor for hours. I am forcing myself to write this down so that I may at least try to comprehend what I’ve witnessed and learned here tonight.

Adrian joined me at dinner, though he ingested nothing but his “medicated wine” -ha!- as usual, and then retired to his room. I went to the library for a few hours, then went to bed, where I slept for perhaps another three hours before things took an abrupt turn for the bizarre.

I awoke to the same monstrous rumble I have come to associate with my nightmare-panther. Naturally, I assumed I was dreaming.

The sound did not end, though, and the dream did not progress. I sat up in bed and put on my spectacles to investigate.

There was indeed an enormous cat producing the sound, standing sentry in my doorway. It was a huge, shaggy beast whose fur showed purplish-red in the moonlight and whose ears rose like great pointed horns from its massive head. I was utterly transfixed by both fear and fascination as it stalked toward me.

And yet, as it walked toward me, the creature’s body began to shift and metamorphose, become smaller, slimmer, less hairy, until it had reached my bedside- and by now it was a girl, lovely and dressed in a clinging lilac gown. Her hair was unnaturally lilac too, and the creature’s ear’s remained the same, sticking out from under that hair like an odd headdress.

In horror, I leapt out of my bed on the opposite side, but the girl-creature sprang up and seized me, grabbing dragging me to the bed and sniffing all along my body until she hissed something excitedly at the door.

I looked at the threshold, already dreading whatever fresh horrors were to come for me, but the two figures that appeared in the doorway this time were human-shaped from the start and lacked the girl-creature’s unnatural ears. One was a slim blonde with a bored, haughty expression, and the other…

The other was a voluptuous, loping thing in black, with crimson hair piled up atop her head like a church steeple and falling over her shoulders. She smiled horribly, even more beastly than the girl-creature.

“And what have you found for us, dear kitty?” she cooed.

The girl-creature growled and mewed and licked my cheek with a rough, odd-smelling tongue. I tried calling Adrian’s name, but the crimson-haired woman clapped a cold hand over my mouth while the blonde approached with cold grace.

“Not a bad specimen at all,” said the blonde. She bent over me and pried away the crimson-haired woman’s hand, but she did not permit me to cry out either, silencing me with a rough, cold kiss while the crimson-haired woman began to slide down my pyjama trousers.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t dare to. The women’s threefold attentions were both horrible and intoxicating- the blonde and her kisses, the caresses of the girl-creature, and-

Laurie, should you ever find this, please forgive me, for the crimson-haired woman took my most personal anatomy into her mouth and proceeded to pleasure me. 

I fell completely under their enchantment until I felt the blonde suddenly bite my shoulder with inhumanly sharp teeth, drawing blood. I came to my senses and began to scream out Adrian’s name, that he would fight off these unnatural women, and he materialized almost immediately in a temper such as I did not even realize he was capable of.

“What do you think you are doing! I have told you all again and again- this man is mine!“

The women released me at once. The blonde and the crimson-haired woman fell to the ground in groveling, apologetic positions while the girl-creature resumed her monstrous feline form and assumed a likewise chastened pose. I moved to dress myself immediately, and Adrian swept over to my side and took me in his arms, one hand crossed over my chest. My breathing was shallow and I was still trembling. Adrian gave me a look of deep apology before turning a fierce glare on his female subordinates.

“Do we get nothing, then?” the blonde shouted, raising herself up and steeling her body in defiance after her initial cowardice. “How can you keep him to yourself, and leave us to starve?”  
“You know that I have always taken care of you,” said Adrian, “and I promise that you will each have a feast of your own tonight-”  
“Where? Are you having children kidnapped from the village, Adryjador?” the crimson-haired woman sneered.  
“I am going to New York. My three manservants will no longer be needed.”

The women and the cat-creature exchanged looks of gleeful, greedy hunger, then all three emitted hideous shrieks of delight and went running down the hallway, out of sight and earshot.

We were alone then, Adrian and I, I limp and trembling and disoriented leaning against him while he rocked me gently. I was again reminded of a mother tending to a wounded child.

“I am sorry, Daniel,” said Adrian. “I did not think they would find you.”

The realization that Adrian knew these women, and had just abandoned his valets to their mercies, suddenly blossomed into full awareness, and I recoiled from him as violently as I wish I might have been able to from them.

“Daniel-” Adrian said. “Daniel, be still.“

I was so weak, and the pain in my blood-soaked shoulder was so great, and my exhaustion from the crimson-haired woman’s attentions in particular so vast, that I collapsed against the bed.

Adrian leaned over me, very solemnly.

“I trust that you now understand the nature of my illness,” he said.  
“Your manservants…” I said weakly. “What will they do to your-”  
“Sssh, Daniel. The men will recover to live again.”  
“Adrian-”  
“You have been a good, great friend to me, Daniel, and I cannot thank you enough. There is only one more thing I must ask of you.”  
“Adrian…”  
“Daniel?”  
“Just let me sleep and… waken from all of this…”  
“Daniel….”

Adrian leaned very close, pushing aside my bloodied, torn nightshirt, and leaned over the wound with the same unsettling tenderness as the women before. I wanted to move, to throw him off, to do anything to end this nightmare, but Adrian did not bite me afresh. He simply pressed his lips to the wound, as he had my cheek so long ago, so soon after I had arrived here…

And he drank.

It did not last long, and in my delirium I was actually relieved that this was all he was doing. I shook and went limp again.

“It is not your time, Daniel,” Adrian murmured.

He raised himself again, and the night yielded its last awful shock. He was not the pitiful, ill creature I had come to recognize and befriend anymore, but the same strong, handsome, youthful man I had seen in the portrait on my first day here.

“I have drawn out her poison along with some of your blood,” he said. “You will not be changed.”

He gave my hair a familiar caress and then left me alone on my blood-soaked bed, his walk now light and confident.

The sun is beginning to come through the window and my bed is now stained brown where the blood has dried, and yet I still hope above all, even as I write this, that I may yet wake and still be safe.


	6. Daniel Dreiberg's Journal

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
June 24, 4:13 pm

Slept the majority of yesterday despite the blood that has by now dried and stiffened on the bed. I finally dressed and ventured out of my room again this morning, dull-eyed and still uncertain of what the future held.

Adrian was sitting quite peaceably in the dining room, going through a few different American travelogue books and with a map of New York City placed before him. He was humming to himself, there was a goblet sitting to his side, and, to my horror, the girl-creature reclined against his leg in her human shape. Her attitude as I approached, however, remained unnaturally feline. She rubbed her head languorously against his knee and purred while kneading at the carpet with one hand.

I stopped in the threshold, dumbstruck by the absurd domesticity of the scene until the girl-creature let out a horrible mewling sound and leaned up to touch Adrian’s arm and alert him to my presence. Adrian took a short sip from his goblet and smiled.

“Good morning, Daniel,” he said. When he smiled, it now showed his eyeteeth to be nearly as pointed as those of his freakish cat-girl. Were they always this way, and I never noticed?

I did not answer him for a long time. The girl-creature stretched and metamorphosed into her feline shape again and padded out of the room, causing me to quickly recoil from her and leap out of her way. Adrian laughed.

“You don’t need to fear my little Bubastis, my friend. She is quite affectionate, but not like the others, as you undoubtedly noticed during your little encounter.”  
“Excuse me if I didn’t,” I snapped.

Adrian’s eyes widened and he looked chastened, even a bit hurt. He took another drink.

“Did those women harvest that from your late valets for you, or did you manage to drain that from me as I slept?” I asked, coming closer to him. “You were the panther all along-”  
“And I’m deeply sorry for that, Daniel, I truly am,” Adrian replied. The worst part of the entire thing was that he really did sound quite repentant. “I imagine I’m to blame for your fever…”

This had not yet even occurred to me.

“I’d imagine so myself! All this time, I’ve been your prisoner here-”  
“Did I ever once make you feel imprisoned? Have I been nothing but a gracious host?”

He rose from his chair and pulled one out from the other side of the table.

“Gracious- you lied- you’ve been feeding on me- I don’t even know what manner of demon you are-”  
“Daniel, you’ve been under a great deal of stress. Please sit down.”

Much as I didn’t want to admit it, he was right. I sat in the chair he had pulled out for me and leaned forward heavily with my arms crossed on the table.

“What are you…” I grumbled.  
“I’m your friend, Daniel,” said Adrian. “Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

He pressed his strong hands, made less spiderlike by the return of his youth, against my shoulders and began rubbing them in a circular manner. I did not want to enjoy it, but he was right; my whole body was still wracked with tension and the firm attentions of his hands were very calming.  
“Don’t talk to me as though I’m one of those women. How long did it take them to finish off your valets, hmmm?”  
“The men are recovering nicely; I suspect we’ll have fewer rats here this fall,” Adrian said lightly, leaning into his work.

I threw him off and turned around.

“Recovering? You mean-”  
“I mean that each of my ladies will have a new consort to share the castle with when I have gone. I suppose one of them will have the rather ignominious position of Bubastis’ favorite rather than being beloved by either Melissa or Leslie, but my men’s faces are known in the village, and whichever man is left alone may perhaps enter into a courtship with a girl from there if he pleases while keeping Bubastis as a pet.”

I didn’t know which was worse- the idea of the men being dead, as I’d thought, or the idea that there were now five of these creatures in the castle, not even counting Adrian himself or his mutant cat-girl!

I slumped against the table again, and Adrian resumed rubbing my shoulders.

“Daniel, if I intended for you to come to any harm, it would have happened by now. Did you not tend me in my illness, live as my own best companion, share hours by the fire with me as we discussed the fauna of my land?”  
“Adrian-”  
“And did I not tend you? Did I not save you two nights ago and draw out Melissa’s poison? I don’t think you’re addressing the situation quite fairly.”

I was beginning to feel drowsy again and tried to combat this by sitting up.

“You pretended to be ill to keep me here-”

He leaned around me to smile very calmly to my face, looking very mild.

“I never pretended. You saw what shape I was in when you arrived… and now you see what your blood has done for me. As I saved you two nights ago, you have saved me.”

His smile broadened, showing those awful teeth of his. I turned my head, but Adrian pressed his blood-warmed mouth against the mark on my cheek where shortly after arrival he had slashed my face- by accident or design, I can no longer tell. He then drew back again and continued rubbing my shoulders.

“And what business do you have in America?” I asked.  
“Am I to be forbidden a change of scenery due only to what I am?”  
“You intend for me to help you spread this plague of yours, don’t you?”

Adrian laughed. The sound was now full and pleasant, not the weak, miserable sound I was accustomed to at all.

“You do lose faith so very quickly, don’t you?”

That single word, faith, suddenly impressed on me the meaning of the village woman’s gesture before I had even come to Adrian’s castle. I jumped up from the table, knocking Adrian back, and hurried to his goblet of blood and stuck my fingertip in it.

“Daniel-”

I used the blood to smear the rough shape of a cross upon one of Adrian’s maps, grabbed the map, and leapt at Adrian, pressing the map against his face. Together we fell backward, Adrian clawing at me and hissing from under the paper until he pulled it from his face and glared accusingly at me from below, his blond hair hanging disheveled over his pale forehead.

“Daniel,” he said reproachfully. “You have ruined my map.”

He pushed me off and stood again, patting dust off of his fine purple coat with both hands in a highly irritable manner.

“But-”  
“Did you actually think that would work? Honestly…”

He sighed and shook his head while tidying his cuffs.

“You have made it abundantly clear that America is vastly scientifically superior to my homeland. I imagine someone with my… odd requirements would find it easier to carry on there without having to cause any general unpleasantness among the neighbors the way I have regrettably had to here.”

I didn’t ask about that. I decided fairly immediately that I didn’t want to know.

“And wouldn’t you find that preferable, Daniel?”

Adrian looked very pointedly at me. I hesitated.

“I am only trying to stay alive. The same as anyone else,” Adrian sighed. “There are likely already others of my kind in New York; we’re hardly restricted to misty mountains in the Carpathians anymore.”

I stopped to think about this for a moment and shuddered. Adrian sighed again and pulled me up from under the arms.

“Go back to sleep if you’re so unable to consider anything right now, will you?” he snapped. “It’s terribly trying to attempt a conversation with you when you’re staring at me all slack-jawed.”

I pulled myself away from him, still shaking, and stumbled toward the door.

“I’ll talk to you again when you’re feeling better, shall I?” he called.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it. Damn him for being so calm!

Daniel Dreiberg’s Journal  
6:46 pm

I heard Adrian gasping rather painfully in his room as I passed it. I thought he might have already been regressing to the pitiful, aged form I first encountered him in, but when I looked in through the keyhole he was on his hands and knees on his bed with blood dripping from his mouth.

I was instinctively drew back, but I forced myself to continue to watch as he picked up a rag already stained with several huge spots of red, wiped his chin, and then picked up a file and scraped it against the point of his right eye tooth. The left, that I could see, was already blunted to human shape, and the file was likewise covered in blood.

My feelings of betrayal are gradually being replaced by the pity I originally felt for him. I suppose that the blunting of one’s eyeteeth counts as a kind of penitential self-mutilation for things of his kind. Perhaps he really does simply want medical attention for his strange condition and what has happened in the last few days should be seen as only an extension of the state I first met him in.

I hope I am right. For the sake of my sanity, I pray that I am right.


End file.
